


the whole world is moving (and i'm standing still)

by AnaliseGrey



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Death, Eiselcross, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Off-screen Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Resurrection Sickness, after effects of resurrection, but he gets better!, possible future, the widomauk is more inferred as potential but it's there, vaguely spoilery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28197729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: It’s cold.It’sfucking cold, is the first thing he thinks.The second thing he thinks is ‘not again’, though he doesn’t know why.
Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 21
Kudos: 161





	the whole world is moving (and i'm standing still)

**Author's Note:**

> Not precisely spoilery for the most recent episode of C2 (120), but a possible future. This popped into my head after the episode and wouldn't leave me alone, and so here we are.
> 
> Title taken from The Weepies' ['World Spins Madly On'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXgXFwnrGqE).

It’s cold.

It’s _fucking cold_ , is the first thing he thinks.

The second thing he thinks is ‘ _not again_ ’, though he doesn’t know why.

He’s cold, he’s confused, and he _hurts_ , so exhausted he can barely move, and he doesn’t know what’s going on, where he is, _who_ he is-

“Molly?”

That sounds- right.

He thinks?

Opening his eyes takes a gargantuan effort; he almost doesn’t manage it.

But he does, and things are blurry at first, fuzzed over in the way they are when he’s hungover, or when Beau’s convinced him to do something that’s probably a very bad-yet-interesting idea, and-

Beau. Who’s Beau?

“Molly.”

There’s a hand on his face, scalding-hot, and oh right- there are people.

He follows the hand to an arm, and from the arm up to a shoulder, and at the other end of the shoulder is a blue tiefling woman who looks about to cry, tears in her eyes, lower lip trembling.

“What?” His voice sounds weird, rough and scratchy and harsh, throat dry, and merry Moonweaver, what the _hells_ has he been up to?

The blue tiefling leans forward- _The Moon is what he’s pulled for her. It’s not what he’d intended to pull, he doesn’t think, but looking at it, and looking at her, it seems to fit_ \- and brushes something off his forehead.

“How do you feel? Are you _you_ again?”

“I-” He thinks, still trying to process, but his head feels full of soggy cotton, wet and heavy and _tangley_ , and how do you even _answer_ a question like that?

Who is he _supposed_ to be?

He has vague memories, more fleeting glimpses than anything. A circus, bright colors and lights, the thrill of a performance, no matter how big or small. A tall woman, quiet and haunted, but soft and gentle with him, looking at him, exasperated even as she chides him for something ridiculous. A fight, the sting of a blade against his skin, flares of power he doesn’t understand, doesn’t _want_ to understand. People- _these_ people- fighting alongside, shouts and jokes and bath houses and bandits and a city, such a city as he’d never been in before, teeming with people, not like the other city-

Oh gods, the _City_ , what-

His heart pounds in his chest with a barely-remembered thrill of terror, and he can’t even remember _why_ , but he thinks maybe it’s not something he _wants_ to remember. So he stuffs that down, focuses on the here-and-now.

Here. Where is here?

He looks around, trying to see past the huddle of people around him. There’s white as far as he can see, with clear crystalline blue above. His breath is puffing white as he exhales, and he’s once again reminded of how _cold_ he is.

“What- where?” He doesn’t remember coming here, isn’t sure what’s happened. He remembers it being cool, but only the chill of early autumn. He remembered a road, heading north, but he doesn’t think they were heading _that_ far north. And even if they were, why doesn’t he remember it?

“Hey-”

He looks up, sees a brown face pinched with worry, dark brown hair with an undercut, blue robes with a gray sash. His brow wrinkles as he sifts through his thoughts.

“Yes, unpleasant one?”

Her face goes startled, lips quirking up in a quivering smile, like her control might break at any moment. “What do you remember?”

Well _that’s_ a fucking question, isn’t it?

She still looks worried, and something about that sets him ill at ease, the expression wrong on her face. She’s not supposed to look worried or concerned, not for _him_ , that’s not the sort of relationship they have. It should be one of playful annoyance, friendship and antagonism, not _this_ , whatever it is.

“Road-” he croaks out, wracking his brain to come up with the missing pieces. He’s starting to get impressions back as he thinks about it- a sense of desperate urgency, the need to _hurry_ , to not wait. The need for ill-advised action. A split-second decision with fatal consequences, spitting in the face of his own death-

Oh gods. Oh _gods_ , it happened again, _it happened again_ -

He tries to scramble upright, to get up to sitting, not able to handle having this monumental realization while laying on the ground, surrounded. His arms don’t want to hold him, trembling even under that slight effort, and everything still hurts, a deep ache he can’t escape. He manages to get himself flopped over and up to his hands and knees, and realizes he’s been laying on snow, his hands sunk in up to his wrists. He’s not wearing his coat, his arms covered in a plain heavy jacket of black and gray, and it feels _wrong_ , so out of place that it makes _him_ feel wrong, and he can’t _breathe_ , can’t stop the panic from swirling and spiking higher and higher and-

“Molly-”

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder, and he flinches, but the owner of the hand isn’t deterred.

“Molly, can you breathe with me?” Hands ease him up to his knees, taking his hand and pressing it to a coat-covered chest. “Match my breathing, okay?”

As he thinks about it, he knows that voice, knows it means _comfort_ , and _safety_ , means warm arms holding him as he shakes apart, fingers moving quickly in signs when words are too hard, or won’t come, steadiness and steadfastness and quiet strength-

 _Yasha_.

It takes him a couple of minutes, of matching his breathing to hers, focusing only on her, on the feel of her coat under his hand, the movement of her chest, and eventually his breathing calms, eases enough let him take a deep breath without wheezing through it.

“You’re alright,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze. “We’ve got you.”

Gods, he certainly hopes they do, because he hasn’t got a gods-bedamned thing right now. He takes comfort in the fact that unlike last time, he’s remembering who he is- was- **_is_** , and that the yawning emptiness inside him is quickly filling up, with memories and relationships and people; wonderful colorful fucked-up people.

He stays there, leaning forward and curled in against her chest. He isn’t sure how long, though he notices that after a short while it doesn’t feel as cold anymore, the winds stopping and it’s almost comfortable, snow aside. He kneels there and breathes, soaking up the feel of her hand rubbing circles on his back, holding him close, her breath ruffling his hair. The others are talking quietly nearby, voices soft and unobtrusive, and he wishes he could stay like this, in this gentle moment of peace and quiet, but he has a feeling that’s not really viable. So he gathers himself, tries to pull as much of his attitude as he can around himself like armor and sits up back on his heels again, scrubbing his hands over his face and up over his hair.

His hair is shorter than he remembers, and it’s quiet, his charms and baubles no longer hanging from his horns and ears. That’s alright, though; not great, but alright. If the most he’s lost is his jewelry and his coat, he’ll be _really annoyed_ about it, but he’ll survive.

“Alright then,” he says, grimacing at the sound of his voice, still rough and scratchy, throat dry. “Someone want to fill me in on what the merry _fuck_ has been going on?”

There’s a moment of quiet, and when he turns and looks around, he’s startled at how changed people seem, that there’s people he doesn’t recognize. Fjord is a lot broader than he was the last time he saw him, sporting a beard that looks great on him. Jester’s face has lost some of its baby fat, cheekbones more pronounced, horns curling longer and more elegantly than the little cinnamon-bun twists she used to have. Beau is leaner, her outfit more ornate and better-suited to the cold weather, though somehow she still has her abs out, and he can’t help but shake his head with a laugh. There’s a tall skinny man in shades of pastel that looks _fascinating_ and he’s going to have to find out who he is. There's a grizzled-looking man in a chair of all things, with a lot of unusual stuff hanging off of it, skis instead of wheels down against the snow. Next to him there's a halfling, with dark skin, a round face and felt antlers with a crossbow in-hand. He thinks he remembers the crossbow, tinker-something, but that was Nott’s. He realizes he doesn’t see Nott and his heart twists in his chest. She was an obnoxious little gremlin most of the time, but that doesn’t mean he wanted anything to happen to her. He hopes it was quick, whatever it was that took her.

There’s still one more unaccounted for, and he looks around, panic starting to rise in his chest again, and he realizes they’re not out in the open anymore- there’s a dome of some kind around them all, faintly shimmering, barely noticeable against their surroundings. Snow is still being blown around in little dips and swirls outside, but inside it isn’t, no wind, and now the warmth is making more sense.

He’s about to ask, not sure if he wants to know, but then there’s a quiet _mrrp_ , and he has a cat trying valiantly to climb up his thighs to his chest. Laughing, only a little wet-sounding, he scoops Frumpkin up and cuddles him close, pressing his nose against the familiar’s head.

“If you’re here, then Mr. Caleb can’t be too far, hm?”

There’s a quiet noise from behind the line of people, and when he tries to look, the others part for him. Sitting on the ground is Caleb, but not looking _remotely_ how he remembers.

He’s _clean_ for one thing, hair shining a soft and warm auburn in the sunlight, coat similar to the one Molly remembers, but not in tatters, also clean and cozy-looking. He’s smooth-faced, a long fluffy-looking scarf wound around his neck. He doesn’t look as thin, as haunted and miserable and _scared_.

He looks almost happy, and it’s one of the most beautiful things Molly’s ever seen.

“Hi.”

“ _Hallo_ , Mr. Mollymauk.”

He’s missed that voice, he thinks, though he doesn’t remember being away from it. He notices more as he focuses on Caleb’s face- the tired circles around his eyes, the deepened laugh lines. There’s a cut along his cheek with a small drip of dried blood, and that gets him looking around at the others. They all look a little battered, a little beat up, and he can’t help but wonder what happened, what was going on before whatever _this_ is.

He hides his unease by hugging Frumpkin close again, kissing the top of his small head. Frumpkin erupts into purrs, butting his head up against Molly’s chin, and it feels familiar, something he remembers from before, and it helps to settle him.

“Still waiting on an explanation. Unless you're all going to just sit here in a weird presumably-magic dome staring at me. Which, I don’t mind, I understand I’m quite a vision to behold, but I think I’d prefer answers, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Yeah, it’s him.” Beau snorts as she turns and crosses the small space, plopping down next to Caleb.

There’s what feels like release of tension, an overall sigh of relief in the group, and then people are talking all at once, crowding in, and Fjord attempts to quiet everyone, telling them not to overwhelm Molly.

Molly just looks up at Fjord.

“What the _fuck_ happened to your accent?”

The halfling snickers, and when she speaks it’s _Nott’s_ voice coming out of her.

“Yeah, Fjord, what the fuck happened to your accent?”

Fjord sputters at her, and they devolve into bickering, and if Molly needed any more proof that the halfling is somehow Nott, that would do it.

He listens to the two snipe at each other, Frumpkin warm and purring in his arms. Yasha's a solid presence at his side, her arm coming around him warm and protective. On the other side of the dome, Jester asks Caleb something about a tower; Caleb answers in an affirmative, and Jester squeaks in joy, hands clapping together before coming back over and sitting next to him.

“Molly! Caleb’s going to make his Tower to stay in tonight, you’re going to love it, it’s _so nice_.”

“Okay?” He has no idea what she’s talking about, but she seems excited, so he’s not going to rock the boat.

“It will take him a minute, but it will be worth it. Have you ever had pancakes? Ooo! Or Waffles? His cats make the _best_ waffles-”

Molly just nods along; he’s heard of pancakes though hasn’t tried them. He has no idea what waffles are, but if Jester likes them, they’re probably some kind of pastry; he can’t imagine what cats have to do with pastries, though.

He watches as Caleb stands, digging around in the pouches strapped at his hips and thighs, pulling out a wand, a small figurine, and some small things he can’t really see. Caleb jams the wand into the snow at his feet, settling the small figure that Molly can now tell is a little wooden cat next to it. He drops a pile of something colorful and shiny next to them and closes his eyes, hands in motion and lips moving quietly in an incantation.

Caleb’s gesturing is more complex and sure than he recalls, face tranquil; it’s a delight to watch.

A minute later Caleb drops to his knees and picks up the wand, lifting it as he stands, and as he does it’s like watching Caleb cut the air as if it were a piece of tent canvas, a door appearing behind the split.

“Alright everyone, in we go.”

Caleb pushes the door open and gestures people through. Yasha helps Molly up to his feet, Frumpkin dropping down to the snow to pad alongside them. He’d been so consumed with watching Caleb he’d forgotten momentarily how exhausted he is, how much he hurts, but trying to move reminds him. He grits his teeth against it, refusing to give in to the desire to sink back down to the snow to rest. It can’t be more than ten feet to the door. He can walk ten feet.

By the time they reach the door he’s tiefling-enough to admit that it’s mostly Yasha’s doing that he’s still upright. They’re both trying to be careful, but every step jostles him, drains more energy. They move through the door, Caleb following along and closing the door behind.

He doesn’t know what he expected to see, but an entryway into a very large, fancy building with stained glass certainly isn’t it.

“ _Fuck me_ -” He tilts his head back, looking upward, and sees what is in fact a tower, a circular opening up above them, a staircase nearby that leads up to a platform, but he doesn’t know how they’re expected to get from the platform to...well, wherever it is they’re going.

Yasha asks if she can carry him up the stairs, and while he wants to do it on his own, he realizes the embarrassment of trying and tumbling back down on his ass would be greater than that of being carried up.

Also, maybe this’ll make Beau jealous. Win-win, really.

They get to the platform, and Molly’s looking around, trying to figure out what next when suddenly everyone starts to float upward, including Yasha, taking him with her. He yelps, grabbing onto her, eyes wide, and she looks down at him, smiling apologetically.

“Sorry, we’re so used to it- if you think ‘up’, you will go up.”

It sounds crazy, but he’s also in the arms of a floating woman in a tower that shouldn’t exist, so why the fuck not. It’s that kind of day.

He thinks ‘up’, and lifts gently out of Yasha’s hands, moving independently now. There’s a large open space in the ceiling, and everyone floats through. They pass through another floor, and then another, and as they’re passing on towards the next floor, he comes to a stop mid-float.

They’re moving through an immense library, split into a number of levels connected by spindly spiral staircases, with a giant fireplace on one side, crackling cheerily. There’s chairs and couches scattered around, and more books than he’s ever seen in one place before.

What catches his attention, though, is a large stained glass feature up above the fireplace.

It’s his coat, his missing coat, recreated in shimmering pieces of stained glass like a mosaic. It’s beautiful, flickering in the light of the fire below.

He stares at it in awe, and it begins to occur to him that this may not just be a place Caleb _brought_ them to, but might be a place Caleb _made_. He doesn’t mean to think it, but he floats horizontal until he lands on the edge and steps forward onto solid flooring, towards the fireplace. He remembers a second later that there was a _reason_ Yasha’s been helping him move as his legs decide they don’t want to hold him anymore, and buckle.

Before he can fall all the way there are arms around him, and while they don’t keep him from ending up on his ass, they do keep him from landing on his face or falling over the edge of the floor.

“Not as effective as Yasha, perhaps,” Caleb says from his place on the floor next to him. “But not too bad.”

“Caleb, this place-” Molly’s eyes are drawn again to the colorful depiction of his coat above the fireplace. “You made this?”

“I did.”

Molly expects Caleb to seem embarrassed, sheepish, to quail in the face of direct attention. But this Caleb isn’t the same as the one Molly remembers. This Caleb is confident, direct, and up close Molly sees more changes.

His hair is longer than Molly initially realized, pulled back into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. There are a few well-healed scars he doesn’t recall, and he can’t make himself look at Caleb as he asks, so he looks back at the wall, his coat wrought in glass in a magic tower.

“How long?”

“You died on the twenty-second of Fessarun,” Caleb says quietly, closing his eyes, brows pinching in thought. He opens them again a moment later. “A few days over nine months.”

Nine months. He was dead for-

He can feel the panic threatening again, clawing at him with razor-sharp talons, but before it can sink into him properly, Caleb takes his hands, squeezing them, drawing his attention back.

“And you were missed, _dearly_ , for every minute of that time.”

He’s sincere, Molly can hear it in his voice, in the way Caleb seems to implore him to believe, to trust. It’s hard, though. He was gone far longer than he was ever with them- just barely over a month. They all seem to have changed so _much-_ there’s people he doesn’t recognize at all, friends with different accents, different _bodies_ , so much lived experience, so much lived _without_ him-

How does he catch up? How does he even _begin_ to slot himself back in to this group of weirdos?

Caleb lets go of one of his hands and cradles the side of Molly’s face in his palm.

“Trust us that we wanted you back. That you left an impression on us such that you will likely never know the full extent of it. Your loss was felt, _grievously_ so. We didn’t forget you, not for a single day.” Caleb’s thumb rubs warm and callused over Molly’s cheek. “ _I_ did not forget you.”

“Well, of course _you_ didn’t-” Molly huffs a laugh, only a little hysterical. “-you remember everything, right?”

Caleb’s lips quirk up in a smile, eyes crinkling with it. “ _Ja_ , I do.”

They sit, quietly, and after moment Molly realizes they’re alone.

“Where did everyone else go?”

“Oh, they headed up to the dining room. I told them we’d be along in a few minutes.”

“The dining room. Right.” A dining room; how big _is_ this place?

“If you are ready, I can help you up there? Mr. Clay told us you would not be at your best for a few days at least.”

“Is he the really tall guy? Pink hair?”

Caleb nods as he stands, reaching down to help Molly back up again. “ _Ja_. We found him not very long after we lost you. He assisted us in getting Fjord, Jester, and Yasha back from the Iron Shepherds.”

Molly shudders, unable to help it, at the mention of the group of slavers.

“Were you able to- did you-”

“Oh, they are all _quite_ dead.” The grim satisfaction in Caleb’s voice isn’t something Molly’s ever heard from him before. “I killed the man who killed you. Keg was there with us; she and Mr. Clay helped us kill all the rest.”

Molly stands with Caleb’s help, Caleb’s arm going around his waist after urging Molly to put an arm over his shoulders, and together they float upwards, moving to the dining room Caleb mentioned.

Dinner is a raucous affair; that at least hasn’t changed.

He tries pancakes, and finds them delightful. Jester shows him what a waffle is, and while slightly boggled by them, he enjoys those as well. He finds the Tower’s cats endlessly fascinating, how they’re all different, all seem to have unique personalities, and Molly can’t help but wonder if each one is a representation of a cat Caleb’s met before.

Conversation ends up all over the damned place once their guide goes up to his room for the night. The group describes what’s happened since he’s been gone, and there are moments where he can’t believe this group of idiots is still alive.

“How do you become _accidental pirates_? Only you would somehow steal a ship by _accident_.”

He learns about Uk’otoa and Avantika, about the source of their stolen dodecha-doodad. Not only did they go to Xhorhas, but they met the queen, became heroes of the fucking Dynasty and have a _house_. With a magic tree on top, if they’re to be believed.

Beau is an expositor, which explains the fancy new robes. Nott is Veth, and his heart aches for her, hearing her story. He understands a bit better now, her disbelief that he didn’t want any part of his past.

Yasha tells him of her time with Obann, the group growing quiet as she explains in a soft voice. All he can really do is hug her tight- or as tight as he can at the moment- hoping she can tell how sorry he is.

“They got me back, though.” She smiles, and he doesn’t miss how her eyes land on Beau when she says it, rather than sweeping the room.

They tell him about the Happy Fun Ball, and he decides he’s perfectly fine having missed _that_ bit of fun. Dragons are wonderful in stories and on tapestries; he has no desire to meet one in real life.

Jester had a giant party for her god-who-isn’t-a-god, and the group somehow freed an entire island of people from the control of some sort of volcano monster.

And then there’s Caleb.

Caleb, who no longer wears bandages on his arms to hide the scars from his past. Caleb who no longer hides behind grime and dirt and an enchanted necklace, hoping to escape notice. Caleb, who made a Tower for his friends, so they’d be sheltered, well-fed, and comfortable.

So they’d be _safe_.

Caleb, who made that Tower, and put a copy of Molly's coat in stained glass in the library.

Caleb explains in halting words- the first sign of the old Caleb Molly’s seen so far- about his background. Where he grew up, what had happened with his schooling, his parents, with Ikithon, with many things since then.

No wonder Caleb had told him he believed in second chances.

He catches the simmering anger in the eyes of the group as Caleb describes Ikithon, the dinner they had at his tower, how cowed his former schoolmates had been. Molly has to say, based on what he’s hearing, he’d very much like to have a few sharp-edged words- or blades- with the man in question.

Vess DeRogna is mentioned, and while there’s a small twinge in the back of his head he opts to ignore it. If she’s dead, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

They’d tried to get him back once Jester realized they could, only to discover he wasn’t where they'd left him, that Cree and the Tomb Takers had gotten there first. A sliver of ice works through him, knowing that while _he_ was gone for nine months, the _body_ he’s in wasn’t gone that long. The other guy was driving, causing all sorts of mayhem. He'd gone on a seeming-rampage of destruction through the dig sites of Aeor- being creepily threatening the whole time- and a sense of unease drifts over him. The others try to describe a city- The City- and again, at their words something in his mind twinges, seizes, and he could swear the eyes on him pulse ever-so-slightly.

Sensing his distress, the others move the conversation along, finally getting to the part he’s been desperate to know.

How did they get him back?

“There was a fight,” Fjord says. “All the crests had been found, and there wasn’t any other way to stop what you all were trying to do.” At Molly’s pained expression, Fjord backtracks slightly. “What _they_ were trying to do. They weren’t going to be reasoned with, were far too dedicated to what they wanted to accomplish. In the course of the fight, Lucien died, and that was the beginning of the end, really. The other Tomb Takers, they’d been connected somehow to him, though we aren’t sure how, and when he died it took a few of them out instantaneously. The others were too stunned immediately after to effectively fight. We made it quick as we could.”

Fjord sounds apologetic, as if Molly is going to berate them for killing people he knew; but he didn’t- doesn’t- know them, only having met Cree once before as himself while they were in Zadash.

He has a question, and he knows he shouldn’t ask it, but he's always been subject to a morbid sort of curiosity.

“Who did it? Who got the killing shot on him?”

The others look among themselves, awkward and unsure before Nott- no, Veth- raises her hand.

“It was me. Got him through the throat.”

He can’t help his hand drifting up to touch his fingers lightly to his neck; there’s no mark, he doesn’t think, or at least not that he can feel.

“Thank you. For kicking his ass out.”

It’s like there’s suddenly air in the room, the rest of the group- minus Mr. Clay- taking a breath of relief.

“And for bringing me back. I don’t know what it took, and I don’t know that I can ever really pay you back, but- thank you.”

Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he’s going to go ahead and blame that on the exhaustion. Magic pancakes and waffles are wonderful, but they can only do so much for the recently-risen. He still hurts, though less than he did when he first woke up, and he’ll take it as the small miracle that is.

“Not that you all aren’t wonderful company, but I think if I don’t go lay down soon, my body is going to just do it for me.” He looks over at Caleb. “Where does a person find a bed in this place?”

There’s a snicker from off to the side- Beau, he thinks- and Caleb pinks slightly.

“Eh, if you follow me, I can show you to your room.”

Molly wishes everyone a lovely evening, and Caleb helps him back to the central column before they float up one floor. There are three doors on this level. One has a scarab beetle that Caleb tells him is Mr. Clay’s. The second is lilac, with a flower motif worked through the wood, and Caleb tells him that one is Yasha’s. The third door though looks like a giant stylized peacock feather, brightly-colored and garish and wonderful.

“And this one is yours, _mein Freund_.” Caleb opens the door, helping him inside, and Molly’s jaw drops.

Just inside the door is a sitting room, a blazing fire already going in the fireplace, plush area rugs in brilliant colors, with a chair and small table nearby, a stack of books sitting on top of the table. When he gives Caleb a look, Caleb shrugs, smiling.

“Every room has them. You do not have to read them; I will not be offended if you don’t.”

Through a door to the right is another room, resplendent with draped silks and tapestries, large comfortable-looking cushions scattered about, with a low table off to the side near another smaller fireplace. There are lanterns hung from the ceiling on chains, filigreed metal casings and sparkling colored glass giving the room a magical feel, like anything could happen, and Caleb points out that the table should be big enough for Molly to practice with his cards.

“You still have my cards?” He hadn’t really thought about them, but now that Caleb mentions it, he’s glad they still have them. He could recreate them, but he likes the idea of having the originals; they never turn out the same way twice, and he liked some of them quite a bit.

“Well, Jester has them, currently,” Caleb says, steering him towards another door. “She’s been trying to use them, making some of her own, I believe. But I am sure if you asked she would give them back.”

Through the door is a bedroom far nicer than anywhere he’s ever slept, Pillow Trove included. The bed is large and soft-looking, more inviting by the moment. To the side is a little walled-off area that Caleb tells him is a water closet, and another space with a large deep-set tub with steam rising up off it.

“There is one of these in every room-” Caleb points out a string that hangs from the ceiling, a little colorful wooden ball at the end. “If you tug on one,” he says, giving it a tug, “One of the cats will appear, and you can tell them if you need anything.”

A few seconds later there’s a scratching noise at a small door Molly hadn’t noticed, and when Caleb opens it a little gray cat pops through.

“ _Ja, hallo_ Jasper, I was just demonstrating how the call string works for Mollymauk here. We do not need anything. Very good response time, though.”

The cat- Jasper, apparently- _mreows_ quietly and turns, darting back through the door and away. Caleb shuts it behind, and turns to Molly.

“They can only enter with your permission. So do not worry about them sneaking in.”

It’s a lot.

This whole place is a lot.

The whole _day_ has been a lot, now that he comes to think of it.

This is the second time he’s come back from the dead- well, the first for him, really, since the first time was more a birth than a resurrection. The point still stands that he’s only recently back among the living, which would be a lot for anyone, he feels. He desperately wants to take a bath, desperately wants to climb into the bed and sleep for a week.

Most of all though, what he really, _desperatel_ _y_ wants, is to not be alone.

“Caleb-”

“ _Ja_ , Mr. Mollymauk?”

“Molly to my friends,” he says, almost on reflex.

Caleb smiles at him, fond. “ _Ja_ , Mr. Molly?”

This is a terrible idea. He makes terrible decisions when he’s tired, and he’s never been so tired in his life- this one or the last. But he doesn’t want to be alone, and he doesn’t want Caleb to go, and he wants to get to know this new Caleb, one who teases back without getting flustered.

He should ask Caleb to send Yasha up.

He _should_.

But he’s not going to.

“I- would you-” He takes a deep breath, tries again. “I was wondering if you would stay. With me. Tonight.” At Caleb’s raised eyebrow, Molly shakes his head. “Not for any of whatever it is you think I’m asking for. I just- I don’t want to be alone. I don’t think I can be- I just- please?”

Caleb nods, taking a step closer and putting a hand on his arm. “Of course. Do you want a bath or bed?”

A bath sounds _amazing_ , but the idea of having to move any further than he absolutely has to is making him want to drop to the floor where he stands to sleep.

“I think bed first might be the better part of valor. I can bathe in the morning.” Molly looks around again. “How long does this place last? Will there be time to do that in the morning?”

“It lasts for twenty-four hours. You will have time, yes.”

Caleb helps him strip down to his small clothes, letting Molly hold onto his arm for balance as he climbs up onto the bed. It’s just as soft as it looked, the linens holding the faintest trace of lavender scent on them, and that smell is such a comfort, so much a part of _him_ and not the other guy, that tears prickle at his eyes again. He hides them by burying his face in one of the pillows, taking a deep breath and letting it out again in a sigh.

“This is truly a tower of wonders, Mr. Caleb. I will sing songs and write odes to the glory of this mattress.”

There’s a quiet snort from the other side of the bed, and a moment later Caleb climbs up and under the covers as well, stripped down to his shirt and pants, the shirt un-tucked with the sleeves rolled up. He lays down, close enough that Molly can feel the warmth of him, close enough that Molly could move his hand just a few inches and touch him.

He doesn’t, though.

He’s exhausted, already drifting off, and even then he’s too self-aware to pretend that reaching out would only be a product of how tired he is, of how he needs the touch of another person, anyone, to let him know he’s here, that this is real, that he’s _alive_.

He doesn’t reach out, but Caleb _does_ , lacing his fingers with Molly’s and giving his hand a squeeze.

“Good night, Mr. Molly. You are safe, all is well, and I will stay with you until morning.”

Those words, that reassurance, limned in a soft Zemnian accent, matched with the warmth of Caleb's hand in his, are all he needs to drift off to much-needed rest.


End file.
